


Wasted

by tardisjournal



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Community: hc_bingo, Community: watsons_woes, First Kiss, M/M, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Stag Night Fix-It, Stag Nights & Bachelor Parties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-08
Updated: 2014-08-08
Packaged: 2018-02-10 07:19:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2016039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tardisjournal/pseuds/tardisjournal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Okay...” John agrees, as noncommittal as ever. Sherlock can tell by his tone that John is humouring him; saying one thing when he means another, just like he always does. Suddenly, Sherlock has had enough. They are barely outside when Sherlock stops so abruptly that John nearly runs into him. Sherlock rounds on John and glares down at him.</p><p>“Okay? No, it's not 'okay', John. It is very much not <i>okay.</i>”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers: S3.02--"The Sign of Three", S3.03--"His Last Vow"
> 
> Written for the [watsons_woes](http://watsons-woes.livejournal.com/) prompt "beware the fury of a patient man". John Watson, of course, is an excellent candidate to be the "patient man" here. Dealing with Sherlock would try the patience of a saint, and when John unleashes his temper it must be an awesome thing to behold. However, because I like to ~~make things more difficult than they have to be~~ challenge myself, I got to thinking what would happen if the "man" in the story were Sherlock. But how could that possibly work? Sherlock is never patient.
> 
> Or is he?
> 
> There may, in fact, be one thing that he's been extremely patient about waiting for. Until now.
> 
> Also fills my [hc_bingo](http://hc-bingo.livejournal.com/) square "confession in a desperate situation" and my ["Let's Write Sherlock"](http://letswritesherlock.tumblr.com/) Trope Bingo square "confession".

Sherlock reeks of sweat and booze, and he knows it. He can smell it on himself and it's not pleasant. The last thing he needs is to sweat more, but when the desk sergeant at New Scotland Yard hands him his coat, he pulls it on and wraps it around himself anyway. He can tell by the stuffiness in the building that the day is going to be a hot one—it is mid-July, after all—but wearing his coat makes him feel more like himself. Albeit a version of himself with a throbbing head and a dry mouth that tastes like vinegar and failure. John, collecting his things nearby, looks as bad as Sherlock feels.  
  
Even more distressing than the physical complaints, however, are the gaps in Sherlock's memory where the preceding night's events should be. How strange to think that he was out there in the world, walking and talking and _doing things_ , without his conscious mind being in control. And yet, that must have been the case, for the the last thing he recalls with any clarity is the police showing up at the flat where he and John were searching for clues as to the identity of the “ghost”. After that he has only fragments that come in flashes: handcuffs, the back of a squad car, an angry officer who swore a lot because one of them--Sherlock's not sure if it was him or John—threw up in the car. Then it is all a blank until Sherlock was jolted awake in the cell a few minutes ago.  
  
It unsettles him that he can't remember, and being unsettled is a feeling Sherlock Holmes is not accustomed to. He's also angry—at himself, at the whole absurd situation, even at John. _Especially_ at John. Part of him knows that such feelings are irrational, and that he should nip them in the bud immediately. Indulging in strong emotions makes people careless and stupid, after all; strong emotions are _dangerous_.  
  
He finds that, right now, he can't be bothered. He's getting a perverse pleasure out of letting them simmer.  
  
“Well, thanks for a... you know... an evening,” John says.  
  
“It was awful." Understatement of the year, that. But no need to elaborate. John was there, after all.  
  
“I was gonna pretend, but it was, truly.”  
  
As they wind their way through the narrow, tiled hallways of New Scotland Yard toward the exit, Sherlock reviews the events of the evening, trying to find some of the missing pieces.  
  
“That woman, Tessa.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Dated a ghost. The most interesting case for months!” And it had been such a welcome relief from wedding planning, too. Sherlock's obsession with making John's wedding perfect had gone past the point where it was healthy, even he knew that. And yet for some reason he couldn't seem to stop.  
  
Oh God, the wedding! Now that John's stag night is over, the idea of the wedding as a _thing that is actually going to happen_ (as opposed to a surprisingly-challenging logistical puzzle involving events taking place in some vaguely-distant future) seems real in a way it never did before. And that's not all. Sherlock realises with a sinking feeling that, in addition to a sick body and a memory with more pieces missing than a charity-shop puzzle, he has another problem. Last night, they were supposed to do something. Something important.  
  
It didn't happen.  
  
“What a wasted opportunity,” he fumes.  
  
“Okay...” John agrees, as noncommittal as ever. Sherlock can tell by his tone that John is humouring him; saying one thing when he means another, just like he always does. Suddenly, Sherlock has had enough. They are barely outside when Sherlock stops so abruptly that John nearly runs into him. Sherlock rounds on John and glares down at him.  
  
“Okay? No, it's not 'okay', John. It is very much not _okay_.”  
  
 John looks up and blinks. “Look, I'm sure the ghost-lady—Tessa--will be back. She seemed pretty keen to get an answer and who else...”  
  
“I don't care whether she comes back! I have enough to be going on with.” He does. He knows there are other women who have had similar experiences that he can contact online, though he can't quite remember how he knows this. Anyway, it doesn't matter now. “I wasn't talking about the _case,_ John. Try to keep up.”  
  
“You... weren't?” He's so diffident, his John. Always. And that's the problem in a nutshell, isn't it? John is always concerned with what people will _think_. “But you just said it was the most interesting case we've had in months.”  
  
“Yes, and Tessa's arrival ruined the only opportunity of its kind that we've had in three-and-a half _years_. An opportunity resulting from a most singular coincidence of events that will never be repeated again. Which do you think matters more?”  
  
John scrunches up his forehead in that endearing way he has when he's puzzled. Well, most of the time it's endearing. Right now it's getting on Sherlock's nerves.  
  
“What singular events?”  
  
“You and me, alone with no case to investigate or wedding planning to do; a celebration that I actually agreed to attend; and enough alcohol to lower your inhibitions so that you would finally act on the fact that you're physically attracted to me and have been since the day we met. I don't understand what went wrong. I calculated the doses precisely.”  
  
John's face is reddening now. Of course he hones right in on the part of this extraordinary declaration that might imply Sherlock has been up to no good. “You. Calculated. The _doses_? Sherlock? Did you _drug_ us?”  
  
“Only in the sense that alcohol is a drug. One that you self-administered. Repeatedly."  
  
“But something went wrong?” John is repeating what Sherlock has said, another usually-endearing habit that right now seems a lot less charming.  
  
“Obviously. We wound up in jail rather then in bed.”  
  
“In _bed!_ Sherlock!” John looks around to see if they're being overheard. They're not. At this early hour, no one is around to hear. “Are you saying that you were trying to get me drunk in order to... seduce me?”  
  
Finally, the penny drops! But John is getting upset. Why is John getting upset? Clearly, he still fails to appreciate the sheer brilliance of Sherlock's plan.  
  
“It was our last chance. Well, I suppose technically, it wasn't, but it was our last chance to do it _guilt-free_. You're an ethical man, John, with traditional values that some might go so far as to call old-fashioned. You'd never be able to justify cheating on your wife, or even your fiancee, no matter how much you desired me. But I found a loophole.”  
  
“A _what_?”  
  
 Sherlock smiles, remembering the _a-ha_ moment that had light up the lonely flat with its dazzling brilliance.  
  
“A loophole! I learnt from my research into how to be a good Best Man—which was exhaustive, I assure you--that there is a certain  _carte-blanche_ afforded to the celebrants of stag night; that the regular rules of civilised conduct are often suspended in the name of having a good time. Further, I learnt that what occurs is often, by mutual agreement, not discussed with people who weren't there. Or, in the vernacular, 'What happens at stag night, stays at stag night'. It was then that I realised that the occasion of your stag do presented the perfect opportunity for you to get what you wanted.”  
  
“What I wanted! What _I_ wanted?”  
  
“John, if you're just going to repeat what I've already said, there's no point in continuing this conversation.”  
  
“What on earth gave you the idea that that's what I wanted?”  
  
Sherlock huffs a long-suffering sigh. “Consulting detective, remember? Your pupils dilate when we're in close proximity. Your breathing quickens when I'm around, even if we aren't doing anything strenuous. The faintest of flushes crosses your face when you see me when you weren't expecting to.” Sherlock extends a finger as he makes each point, and then he holds the three fingers up so that John can see them clearly. “Child's play.”  
  
John glowers at the fingers. “ _Child's_ play _?_ Sherlock, no child would know that. At least I bloody well hope not."  
  
“Stop deflecting. It was just an expression.” Sherlock flaps his hand dismissively and lets it drop to his side.  
  
He doesn't miss the narrowing of John's red-rimmed eyes, or the tightening of John's jaw that signifies that Sherlock has ventured onto the minefield of “bit-not-good” and should probably watch where he steps going forward. But he decides to ignore these warning signs (as he almost always does) in favour of getting back to the mystery at hand. If John isn't going to contribute to the conversation, he'll just think out loud.  
  
“It makes no sense. I checked and re-checked all the calculations. In the levels I prescribed, we should have been in the sweet spot all night, with just enough morning-after fuzziness to give us plausible deniability in case we wanted to pretend we 'didn't remember' what happened the night before. We were never meant to get sick or sloppy. God forbid one of us couldn't perform after waiting all this time--wait a minute. It was you! You messed with the drinks, didn't you!”  
  
Sherlock points an accusing finger, and John takes a step back. His face is crimson now, Sherlock notes with interest. He deduces the cause as being a combination of embarrassment and anger. The embarrassment, Sherlock understands—John's been embarrassed about his attraction to Sherlock from Day One—why else would he so vigorously deny that he was gay every time someone assumed they were a couple? The anger, less so. What does John have to be angry about? If John had just done what Sherlock wanted and not messed around with the schedule, they would have had a mutually satisfactory--and guilt-free!--evening together. But now all that planning had all been for nothi...  
  
Sherlock dodges the punch John throws at him, but just barely.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock's equilibrium is off, another causality of last night's binge. He jerks backwards to evade the blow and overbalances. Arms windmilling, he tries to step back to catch himself, but his feet fail to move as expected, and suddenly he's falling backward instead. John surges forward, his arm coming up again, and Sherlock's not sure whether John means to strike him or catch him, but John's arm is the only lifeline he's got at the moment, so he grabs it. John turns out to be just as unsteady on his feet as Sherlock, and they tumble together toward the pavement. Sherlock manages to break the fall with his other arm, but their combined weight and the downward momentum is too much for him. They collapse to the floor with Sherlock sprawled on his back and John on top of him.  
  
Sherlock finds himself squinting up at the overcast sky, which when viewed from this angle appears to be rocking back and forth. He suspects he might still be a bit drunk. Either that or he hit his head on the way down and hasn't realised it yet. John plants a hand on either side of Sherlock's shoulders and pushes himself up, and Sherlock, pinned underneath with one arm trapped between their bodies and the other twisted under him, closes his eyes and tenses for the blow he can't possibly avoid now.  
  
It doesn't come. Sherlock warily opens one eye and sees that John's face is only inches away, and his mouth, which only moments before was twisted into a scowl, is now smiling.  
  
Sherlock finds himself smiling hesitantly back. He can't help it. When John smiles, his eyes crinkle up, the years drop away from his face, and he looks positively boyish.  
  
Then John starts laughing. _Laughing_.  
  
Well. That was unexpected.  
  
“What's so funny?”  
  
“You. Me. I don't know, actually.”  
  
“You're still drunk,” Sherlock realises.  
  
“Probably.”  
  
John wipes his eyes, and his laughter subsides. They should probably be getting up. Sooner or later someone is going to notice two men sprawled out in front of the entrance to New Scotland Yard and start asking questions. But lying down feels good--much better than standing. Sherlock's head doesn't pound as much in his supine position, and John's weight on his chest and hips is comforting. Sherlock is content to wait until John collects himself to rise.  
  
John doesn't seem inclined to do so any time soon. He is gazing down at Sherlock with a puzzled look on his face.  
  
“Sherlock?”  
  
“Mm?”  
  
“If you wanted to sleep with me last night, why didn't you just _ask?_ ”  
  
Sherlock snorts. “Ask a man who's so deep in the closet about his bisexuality that he doesn't even acknowledge it to himself most of the time? That's a good way to get punched. Of course, you took a swing at me and I wound up on the pavement anyway, so...”  
  
John chuckles again. He pushes himself up to his knees, and extends an arm to Sherlock. Sherlock considers it for a long moment, as his body still seems reluctant to move from the horizontal. Finally, he grasps John's arm and allows John to pull him into a sitting position.  
  
“Let me get this straight,” John says. “You deduced that I want to have sex with you and thought my stag night might be a good opportunity. But you didn't want to ask because apparently I don't know what I want and I'd refuse. With my fists. So you hatched a scheme to _manipulate_ me into it?”  
  
“You've left out several important nuances, but overall that's a fairly succinct description.”  
  
“Sherlock, don't you see how wrong that was?”  
  
“Obviously. It didn't work, did it? But that's not my fault. It was a perfectly sound plan! You introduced other variables!” Sherlock feels himself getting angry all over again. He had had everything under control. Why did John have to start improvising? “Combining different types of alcohol increases their effects on the body in unpredictable ways. That's why I wanted to stick with beer until we got back to Baker Street. What did you add, anyway? Vodka? Gin? It had to have been something colourless and tasteless when mixed with other liquids or I would have...  
  
“Sherlock! For someone so brilliant you can be such an idiot, do you know that? The problem wasn't your plan, or what I added, it was that you made one at all! Leaving aside the question of dubious consent, which we _will_ talk about later, didn't it ever occur to you that I might have wanted the same thing you did? That you didn't need to go to all that... trouble?”  
  
“John, that's very kind of you to say, but it's not necessary. It's obvious that you had no intention of having sex with me last night. You don't have to lie to make me feel better.”  
  
“Sherlock. Look at me. I'm. Not. Lying.”  
  
Sherlock looks. John's eyes are wide, his expression open. He's telling the truth. But that doesn't make any sense.  
  
“No, that can't be right. You agreed to talk to Tessa when she showed up. You even asked her questions about the case. Wait, maybe that was me. That's not the point! The point is that clearly, you weren't interested in being alone with me any longer.”  
  
“That's because I thought that's what _you_ wanted, you great git! I'd been sending you signals all night, all of which you ignored. I assumed it was you that wasn't interested.”  
  
“Signals! What signals? I never received any signals.”  
  
“Do you even know what a signal is?”  
  
“Of course!”  
  
“Are you sure?”  
  
“Well, obviously I don't have the benefit of your vast experience in these matters. So why don't you enlighten me?”  
  
John ignores the dripping sarcasm. That's another one of his endearing habits. Hell, it's more than a habit, it's a superpower.  
  
“Aright, I will. Do you remember me snuggling up to you on the stairs when we lay down for a 'rest'? I wasn't wedged in there because it was comfortable, believe me. You have more sharp knees and elbows than should be humanly possible.”  
  
“That was a signal? I just thought you couldn't be bothered to climb the stairs.”  
  
“Then I agreed to stay and have more drinks with you even though we both knew if I didn't leave right then I wouldn't be physically able to later. We knew that because I said, 'If I don't leave now, I won't be able to later.' You just laughed and handed me a double whisky."  
  
“I thought you said that because it was too late for the train and you didn't want to pay for a cab. You are rather cheap, you know.”  
  
“And _then_ I put my hand on your knee when I 'slipped' off my chair. And left it there. If you had acknowledged it in any way at all—grabbed it, touched it, hell, even looked at it and raised your eyebrow in that annoyingly smug way you have--I would have known. But you didn't. You just carried on playing that ridiculous game.”  
  
Oh. _Oh._  
  
 _Signals._  
  
The memories of each incident rise to the surface as John mentions them. The sharpness of John's hip pressed against his arse as they lay on the stairs. The warm pressure of John's hand on his knee as he had knelt between Sherlock's legs. He remembers, too, how he had felt each time their bodies had made contact: tingly, anticipatory, almost giddy.  
  
But... but. Not quite giddy enough to stop _thinking_. Even in his drunken haze, his mind had kept reminding him (in a voice that sounded like Mycroft's) that he's rubbish at this kind of thing, that he might have got it wrong, that he must not act rashly lest he scare John off forever. That he'd better be _sure_. And so he had done nothing. Carried on drinking and giggling and playing a game involving guessing celebrity names that he'd hadn't been clear on how it was supposed to work in the first place, just because John had seemed keen on playing it with him.  
  
 _Signals._  
  
He hadn't missed them; he'd allowed his fear to get the better of him and failed to act. How ironic. Sherlock Holmes, who had bested serial killers, assassins, foreign mobsters, and the most brilliant criminal mastermind the world had ever known, had been paralysed by the fear of getting what he wanted.  
  
 _Stupid!_  
  
Sherlock brings up a hand, places it over his eyes, and groans. He'd gone to a lot of trouble to get John to make a pass at him, and then refused to acknowledge him when he did. No wonder John wanted to hit him.  
  
He'd been so _stupid!_  
  
Sherlock takes a deep, steadying breath, lets it out, and then takes another. He removes his hand and forces himself to meet John's gaze. “John, I apologise. It appears that we were playing more than one ridiculous game last night.”  
  
John is sitting back on his heels, gazing back at Sherlock with a strange expression on his face; some combination of amusement and regret and affection all at once. And there's more, but apparently the hangover is still making him fuzzy, because Sherlock can't figure out what it is.  
  
Which is why he is completely unprepared when John leans in and kisses him.


	3. Chapter 3

John's lips are warm and firm, if a bit dry ( _dehydration from excessive alcohol consumption_ , Sherlock's mind supplies) and his stubble is scratchy against Sherlock's chin. John's kiss is confident, even assertive, with something tender underneath. It's exactly what Sherlock had deduced that John would kiss like, the few times he had allowed his mind to wander down such fanciful paths. It's pleasant enough, he supposes, but Sherlock has always found kissing to be a bit overrated, even _boring_ , and within moments the novelty wears off and he can feel himself starting to get restless.  
  
He's just about to pull away when John parts his lips and his tongue brushes against Sherlock's mouth, causing Sherlock's own mouth to open in surprise. He freezes, mesmerised by the sudden wetness on his own parched lips. Then John grabs the back of Sherlock's head and pulls him closer, pushing his tongue inside Sherlock's mouth at the same time.  
  
The wet slide of tongue against tongue is such a novel sensation that Sherlock forgets to be bored. The contact stimulates nerve endings in Sherlock's mouth and tongue that Sherlock didn't know he had, nerve endings that seem to be, in blatant violation of the basic laws of biology, directly connected to other parts of his body. Sherlock flattens his tongue to let John in more, ignoring the fussy little voice in his head (the one that sounds like his great-aunt Sophie) squawking about how unhygienic he's being. When John obliges, a delicious frisson travels down Sherlock's spine, a pleasant warmth blooms in Sherlock's chest, and a warmth of a different sort pools in low in his stomach. Extraordinary!  
  
Sherlock pushes back, and John retreats a bit to allow Sherlock explore the tip of his tongue and the outline of his own mouth. But then he threads his fingers through Sherlock's hair, pulls him even closer, and pushes his tongue back into Sherlock's mouth, deeper than it had been before. Sherlock's scalp erupts into delicious tingles where John's fingers are tugging at his curls, and he feels _claimed_.  
  
It's wonderful.  
  
Finally, John breaks the kiss and takes a deep breath. Sherlock, feeling a bit breathless himself, does the same, though he wishes they didn't have to.  
  
Breathing, after all, is boring. Kissing, maybe not so much, now.  
  
Sherlock stares up at John, who is touching his own lips like he can't believe what just happened (a feeling that Sherlock shares whole-heartedly) and for once, Sherlock has no idea what to say or do next.  
  
“Sherlock. That was...” John leaves the thought unfinished. Maybe he doesn't quite know what to say either. He settles for, “You alright?”  
  
Alright? Sherlock is on such a higher plane from "alright" that "alright" is barely visible. "Alright" is an ant that he's looking at from a skyscraper.  
  
“I'm good.” That seems rather inadequate. “Very good," he amends.  
  
“Well, good. Good is good.” The lines around John's eyes crinkle and he looks like he might start laughing again.  
  
Sherlock realises that this banter would go down in the annuals of inane conversation if there was such a thing, but he's having trouble making his words match what's going on in his head, like there's a short-circuit somewhere.  
  
“Can I ask you something?” John asks.  
  
Sherlock nods, too befuddled to make a quip about how asking if you can ask someone a question is _already asking a question_ , something he usually delights in pointing out.  
  
“This plan of yours... you said you did it because it was what you thought I wanted."  
  
"Yes, but..."  
  
"No, don't interrupt, you were absolutely right about that, though I still have issues with how you went about it. I _haven't_ been completely honest about... what I wanted. Not to you, not even to myself a lot of the time, you're right. It's hard. Talking about this stuff. But I really was hoping something would happen last night. Maybe not consciously, at least not at first, but I was. I give you credit for realising that long before I did. But what I want to know is, was that plan purely... for my benefit? Or was that something you wanted too?”  
  
Well, that's an easy one.  
  
“John, have you ever known me to be altruistic?”  
  
“Not... really? I mean, you solve crimes, which is for the greater good...”  
  
“Don't over-think it. Heroes don't exist, remember. I solve crimes because I enjoy the puzzles. End of story."  
  
“Right. Well, I'm not sure I entirely believe that, but for argument's sake let's say that's true. So you're saying...”  
  
“Yes, John. It's what I wanted too. Yes."  
  
“Right. Right! Up you get, then.”  
  
John rises, then offers Sherlock his hand. This time, Sherlock takes it immediately, and John pulls him to his feet.  
  
“John, I feel I should add that..."  
  
John presses a finger to Sherlock's lips.  
  
“ _Shh_. Not here. We are not doing this here. We're going to call a cab, which you can pay for since I'm so _cheap_ , go back to Baker Street and have some hair of the dog. Then we'll figure out what we're going to do next. By _talking_ about it. Even if it's hard. Alright?”  
  
The brush of John's finger on his lips sends another little shiver down Sherlock's spine. He carefully files it away in the new room he has opened in his Mind Place to contain all this new information about John, and then smiles beatifically down at him. John has a plan. This is good, this is very good, because at the moment, he seems incapable of forming any himself. That part of his brain is sulking in the wake of last night's failure, or maybe it's hungover. No matter--John has his back. John has always had his back, since the day they had moved in together.  
  
“Fine with me. Except for the hair part. That's disgusting. I have no idea where we'd find a dog at this hour, either.”  
  
John laughs, then stops abruptly.  
  
“Wait, you were being serious, weren't you? Sherlock! Surely you've heard of the expression 'the hair of the dog that bit you?'"  
  
Sherlock shakes his head. Gently. It still hurts to move it too much.  
  
“It means to take a bit more alcohol to relieve the hangover symptoms. How can you not know that?”  
  
“I was never much of a drinker, John. And certainly not with people who would use such a ridiculous expression.”  
  
“You mean not with people, period.”  
  
“Yes, I suppose I do. And I'm sure if I ever did hear such a thing, I'd delete it at once. I'm also at a bit of a loss to figure out how that would help the symptoms, but I'll bow to your superior experience in this arena... Oh! Now I understand! More _alcohol!_ The stag night isn't over yet! That's brilliant!”  
  
“Now what are you on about? It's over, Sherlock. In case you hadn't noticed, it's morning.”  
  
“Yes, well, technically speaking the night is over, but as my research indicated, a good stag party can last well into the next day. The sun's barely up--we have plenty of time!" Sherlock's mind perks up at the possibility of his plan being salvaged, and the ideas start coming. "I have another bottle of whisky at home. We can get drunk again and pick up where we left off! But this time we both know what the endgame is, so we won't waste any more time with silly games or intrusive clients!" Sherlock beams.  
  
John winces. "No, we can't. Sherlock, that's—no.”  
  
Sherlock frowns. He'd gotten it wrong, _again_. How on earth did normal people navigate these situations? No wonder he'd sworn off pursuing relationships, even casual ones, years ago. When John had said they would talk, he had meant _just_ talk. Well, Sherlock was tired of talking. Since they'd met, they'd done nothing but talk.  
  
“Ah. I see. Maybe you should just take the cab home, then, and phone me later, when it's convenient. Mary is undoubtedly wondering where you are."  
  
“No, you don't understand. The stag night is over. Me drinking whisky—at least more than a shot or two--is over, at least for some time. But this... this is just beginning.” John reaches up and runs a finger along Sherlock's lips, tracing the line of them until Sherlock's breath stutters. “And whatever it is, I don't need booze for it. I want to make sure I remember every moment of it. No 'plausible deniability' required. Got it?”  
  
 _Oh!_ Sherlock stares at John, and then pulls out his phone and presses the speed-dial button for the cab company rather more times than is necessary to connect the call.  
  
He hadn't got it wrong! Not the important bit, anyway. He's going to Baker Street, with John Watson, who is standing there in his rumpled clothes with his mussy hair and his kiss-moistened lips, looking like the most enticing thing Sherlock has ever seen. John, who currently gazing at Sherlock like he's a mouth-watering dessert he can't wait to devour. And if that look isn't a _signal_ , his name isn't William Sherlock Scott Holmes. They're going to talk, yes, but there's going to be more. Maybe a lot more.  
  
It occurs to Sherlock that this is a spectacularly bad idea, because John is due to get married in less than a month. He doesn't care. After dancing around their mutual attraction for so long, they're finally doing something about it. It's a risk, a terrible one, but (as Sherlock sternly reminds the Mycroft in his head) Sherlock thrives on risk-taking. And so does John. How could he have forgotten that?  
  
Sherlock splutters his location into the phone, hangs, up, then looks over at John and grins. John grins back, full of mischief and promise. Sherlock's stomach do a slow roll of anticipation, and he decides that whatever the consequences are for what they're about to do, it will be worth it.  
  
 _\--fin_

**Author's Note:**

> Quotes from the show were taken from the [transcript](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/65379.html) by Ariane DeVere. The dates referenced were taken from the [timeline](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1143228) by Kizzia. Thank you both for all your hard work!


End file.
